Hard Times
by Daughter of the Lake
Summary: James and Lily survive, but Harry is still the Boy Who Lived. Now, it's 1995, Lord Voldemort is back and dark times are coming: the couple have to face the fact that their son is the Chosen One, and all that comes from it. And in all this, how can a family remain united, where's the place for the feelings between two people?
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The city was silent, dark, almost gloomy. The sky had reached its deepest blackness, with black clouds hiding all the stars. Rain was in the air.

The bell of a distant church began to toll, and the two men sitting in the living room of their house, knew at once that it was midnight. They didn't care.

They were drinking, talking about each nonsense that came to their mind, and laughing, in the light and heat of the fireplace. What did it matter if it was late?

At first, however, when they had sat down – several hours had passed since then, by now- they had started to talk about all other sort of things, things that worried them, that scared them, and only when it had become _too_ _much_, they had rescued the last bottle of Firewisky from the sideboard and had started to drink. Things had went downhill from there, but they didn't regret it, because it was far much easier this way.

It seemed an eternity since the last time they had fun.

Another burst of laughter, however, was broke off by a knock on the door, that startled them and made them turn.

Suddenly, they became quite conscious.

Readying their wand – because, yes, those men were wizards and dark times were coming – and standing unsteadily up, they gingerly started for the door.

"Who's there?" asked sharply one of them - the taller and black-haired one.

The voice from the other side of the door came quite feeble: "James," was the simple answer.

The door was opened at once.

"Prongs, what happened?" demanded the first man.

James Potter, called by his friends Prongs, was leaning with a hand on the doorjamb, his untidy jet-black hair even _more_ untidy than usual, and an impassive expression on his pale, hard face. His eyes, though, looked pecuriarly red.

The question had come by itself.

"Can I come in?" was all James said, ignoring his friend words.

"Sure," granted the other.

The third man – with brown hair and grey eyes, and with a lot of scar all over his face – had remained quite till that moment.

"Prongs, what happened?" _he_ repeated then, while they closed the door and went to the living room again.

The newcomer still didn't answer: he merely took a seat on a harmchair and started to stare intently into the fireplace.

His two friends shared a look, a mixture of confusion and concern.

They then started to ask if something was wrong with his children, wife and so on, but James kept silent, and so they decided to wait, at length.

"Can I stay here?" said James presently, not quite meeting their eyes.

The other two shared another look: _what_ was with him?

"What, wasn't your couch good enough?" tried to make fun the other black-haired man, whose name was Sirius, "If you had a fight with Lily..."

"Sirius," warned Remus, the brown-haired.

James pretended not to hear, or at least this is what his friends noticed.

Silence fell once again, a tense and uncomfortable silence, during which Sirius and Remus looked at James, growing more impatient by the time, and James went on looking at the fire.

But then, finally, after what seemed an eternity, their friend, in a weak, dead tone, explained: "Li – Lily kicked me out. Between us...it's over."

Neither of them was expecting this.

* * *

**N/A **Hello, everyone!(?) This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction ever, and the ispiration came from this question "What would have been if James and Lily survived?" and now here it is, my answer :) I hope you like it! (And don't be discouraged by the end of this, it's only the beginning)

Let me know what you think,

Bye,

Daughter of the Lake


	2. The Breakfast Plan

**A/N** Here with the first chapter. I know it's been long since the prologue, but i'll not be here telling you the usual excuses you give in this cases, because you already know them and uderstand them (hopefully) :) And thanks really much for the reviews you gave me, i'm so glad you liked it! I hope you'll like this too. So go on with it and don't forget to review with your opinions/feedback etc. i except everything but mean comments, of course. Enjoy! :)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything about Harry Potter, that is all of our Queen J.K. Everything you don't recognize, that's mine. And this is absolutely no-profit, of course.

* * *

Chapter 1

The Breakfast Plan

"No! Don't! Cedric..._no_!"

It was always the same.

"Do-don't kill him! He has nothing to do here! It's me that you want!"

Every night.

"Cedric, I'm sorry...I didn't..."

Everything is quiet, at night.

"NOO..."

But not in the Potter's house, not that summer.

The cries echoed through all the house, and James and Lily Potter woke up with a start. Opening their eyes in the darkness of their room, realizing at once what was happening, with their heart beating fast, they climbed out of bed, and, without talking or even _looking_ to each other - though they took hands as they reached the door, clutching so hard it hurt – they left the room and started for the corridor.

Once they had reached the door from the other side of which came the moans and screams, they didn't hesitate: they opened it and were inside in a moment. They didn't turn on the light, because they didn't need it to locate the bed and its sojourner.

"Harry, sweetheart, wake up, wake up, it's okay..." Lily told her son once at his side, shaking him gently.

And the boy who was sleeping in his bed, having a nightmare identical to every other he had had every night since the summer holidays had began, woke up. His large green eyes burst open in the dark, distraught; sweat dripping from his temples and enveloping his body, soaking his sheets, Harry breathed heavily, as if he were still in his dream – as if he were still in that cemetery, with Wormtail, Lord Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and the body of Cedric Diggory.

Only when he had calmed down, did he became aware of the presence of his parents leaning over him, and of the hand of his mother that sweetly stroked his hair, pushing it aside from his face.

"Darling, my darling, it's okay, it's all over now, you're safe," Lily said once again, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking anxiously at Harry and taking his hand. He laboriously sat, his breath still uneven. James meanwhile had lit the lamp, and a slight glow had spread in the room, illuminating their faces.

The three Potters looked at each other silently.

Every night, it was always the same.

* * *

The sun was slowing rising behind the hills above the city, its rays that had started to enter in the room of the first floor of the house through the window overlooking the back garden, when James' elbow, placed on the desk beneath it, decided to slip, sending its owner to slam his face painfully on the hard wood.

"Ouch, holy..." he groaned, suddenly opening his eyes, blinding himself temporarily from the bright sunlight in the process, and rubbing his nose - which luckily wasn't bleeding – meanwhile he straightened on the chair on which he slept.

He looked around: Harry and Lily were sleeping in Harry's bed on the other side of the room and hadn't woken up.

James sighed. Getting to his feet, his back cracked and he was tempted to swear again, but stopped himself.

The day already didn't promised to be the best.

Before leaving his son room, - which was spacious and airy, with wooden furniture and decorated in Gryffindor colours, filled with Harry's school-and-not things and pictures of his friends and family – went to tuck the two sleeping beauty, with a slight smile on his face.

He lingered then to watch Harry, finally serene in his sleep, with the scar on his forehead that stood out under his jet-black, untidy hair; reflecting sorrowfully. He would have to talk to Lily, later.

He left.

He was already dressed, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the_ Daily Prophet_, when Lily came down, too.

Hearing footsteps, James had looked up from the paper, and Lily immediately understood from his expression that she wouldn't have wanted to know what was written in it at all.

"Hey, good morning," he greeted, with an attempt of a smile.

"'Morning," replied Lily; she then approached James to give him a kiss on the lips, before turning around and starting making tea, falling silent for a while.

At length, though, Lily could not resist anymore not knowing, as masochist that could be, and demanded, staring in front of her: "What does it say?"

James knew immediately what she meant. "The – er – the usual." And there was no need to say more.

Or at least, it was enough to cause Lily to seethe with anger, that she could not hold within herself anymore than a boiling pot can with water.

"_Why_?" she snapped, placing her hands on the kitchen counter in search of support, then continuing to talk frantically, her voice sometimes broken; "W-why do they _do_ this? Don't they understand that...and they are _so_...how, how I _wish_..." But at that point the kettle became to whistle and she, wanting to remove it from the fire, grabbed it, unconsciously, with her bare hands, and burned them. She groaned aloud.

James immediately rose from the table e came to hug her from behind. "Hey, shhh...calm down..." he said in her ear, taking her hands that she had already passed under the cold water; he felt her, in his arms, tremble with anger. "We can't let them affect us this way, or they would have reached their aim..." he continued in a tone that was meant to be reassuring, while repressing his own, same anger, "...to demoralize us, demotivate us...but we are stronger than that; neither Voldemort nor the Death Eaters can overwhelm us, and Fudge and the Ministry even less." Oh, how he was wrong.

Lily nodded, closing her eyes to try to relax and leaning back on his husband chest. She breathed deeply, one, two times.

"One day they'll pay: everyone of them," she said at length, in a firm, final voice.

"Yes."

At that point Lily turned, and husband and wife embraced; James firmly wrapped his harms around her hips, burying his face in her ginger hair, while Lily encircled his neck, placing her head on his shoulder.

They stood like that for what seemed an eternity – tired and tested by a long queue of sleepless nights, worried than ever for their first born and his destiny, and for the lives of all of them – clinging to one another as the only existing buoy in the middle of a stormy sea.

And this, did not stray far from the situation they were experiencing.

After a while, James started to say: "Lily, so, I was thinking that, maybe..." but was interrupted, however, by a voice from behind him.

"Ugh, stop it, or you'll make me sick this early in the morning, c'mon!"

The couple broke away as if burned, and turned toward the entrance of the kitchen, where, surprisingly, stood their second child.

"Emma," Lily said, confused, "How come you're already awake at this hour? And dressed? It's only seven...where are you going?" Eyeing her suspiciously.

"What question do I have to answer first?" was all she replied, winking and entering the room. Her mother was about to retort, but stopped, upon seeing that behind Emma came the rest of her children – except Harry – who, with their 'Good mornings' and conspiratorial smiles, took each one a seat around the table. James and Lily exchanged a puzzled look.

"Wait, wait, what's going on here? Merlin himself would rise from the grave, just to see this miracle," James told the kids, half amused, half alarmed (you never know, with a _Marauder_'s kids, they could be planning to burn out the house). They simply widened further their smiles.

"What's for breakfast, Mum?" asked then Will, the youngest (almost eight years old, with his father's dark and dishevelled hair and hazel eyes, and her mother's freckles and smile, he was called 'Snitch' by everyone in the family, because when he was in trouble, you spent _hours_ trying to catch him).

"Oh, no, first you all have to tell us what you're up to, young man, because I don't like your mischievous expressions, _at all_," replied Lily.

She crossed her arms, waiting.

The kids leaned over each other across the table and started whispering frantically, as if considering whether or not tell their parents the reason they were here (and actually, it was so).

Lily looked at them with an eyebrow arched, but a glance towards James at her side told her that now he was finding the situation rather amusing, judging from his smile, and she could not help but smile back.

Finally, the children ended their council, and Claire, Emma's twin, – the two of them, shortly thirteen years old, were identical (with hazel eyes and freckles, tall and thin) but for their hair; the first one had it black, the other dark red – got to her feet and began:

"Mum, dad, what we're doing here it's a secret." Her parents were about to protest, but then she added; "_But _you will soon find out, and you'll like it, too, I assure you." with the biggest grin.

Claire was relatively one of the most reliable of their five children, so James and Lily chose to believe her.

"So wait and see," added Emma, reflecting her sister's expression.

Their parents exchanged one last look, then complied.

Refraining from questioning over, Lily started to prepare a proper breakfast – it was so long, she thought, since the last time they did it together – while James sat once again at the table started talking with his children. Little Beth, at his side, - nine years old and a redhead, she was the second youngest and the only one, beside Harry, that had inherited Lily's eyes – grabbed her father hand beneath the table and James immediately squeezed her.

When eggs and bacon, toast and sausages were ready, the atmosphere could be considered almost cheerful.

If an outsider had seen them, he maybe wouldn't have believed that this was a family who was having the hardest (yet) time of their life. Everyone, as a matter of fact, _tried_ to be cheerful, in those days, tacitly agreeing to pretend that nights weren't but silent, and that everything was right as ever.

James and Lily hadn't the faintest idea of what their children, who from time to time stopped eating as if in this way they could better listen to some kind of noise coming from the ceiling, were waiting for, but they found out, eventually.

Harry arrived in the kitchen about ten minutes into breakfast, irritable and gloomy; and once again, his parents marvelled that he was awake.

"Harry, honey, why are your already up? You could sleep a little bit more, seeing that..." began Lily, but stopped, because the subject of Harry's nightmares was never discussed during the day.

"There was some kind of noise, upstairs; I don't know where it came from, but it woke me up, and then I couldn't fall asleep anymore," explained Harry, and he didn't seem pleased: James noted the twins share a look, before turning quickly on their breakfast; he arched an eyebrow.

Lily filled Harry's plate with every kind of delicacy, but he barely touched any; conversation was tried to be made, but he answered in monosyllables. The boy kept his eyes lowered, meeting anyone's gaze.

They so ate in silence, thereafter – and awkward, tense silence. Lily couldn't remember the last time Harry smiled.

The Potter firstborn, last to arrive, was the first to finish his breakfast; he rose from the table, asking permission lo leave, which was – reluctantly – granted, then he started for the door.

It was then, with a mutual look of understanding, that they took action.

Four chairs were moved back, scratching noisily the the floor, and the four Potter kids rushed toward their big brother before he could even realize what was going on.

Will jumped on his shoulders, throwing his bony arms around his neck, while Beth got him by encircling his side, blocking his path.

"Hey! What is...what are you...let me go!" were Harry's – unheard – protests, while he struggled to shake his brother and sister off himself.

James and Lily had in the meantime got to their feet, and watched the scene shocked.

Emma and Claire went past Harry and stood in front of the door to prevent him to escape.

"Really! What's gotten into you? Let me go! And you two, move!" shouted Harry, as he tried with one hand to remove Beth's arm from around him, and with the other to part Will's hands from around his neck; the latter, however, had surrounded his waist with his legs, welding himself on his back, and Beth had tightened one of his legs with her own, so it wasn't possible, for Harry, to tear loose.

"Harry, listen to us," Beth started to say between laughs, but she was interrupted by one of her sisters: (Lily and James had by now come by this side of the table and had started asking for an explanation, but they were ignored) "You, Mr. Harry Potter of Winterbourne Stoke, Wiltshire," began Claire, in a solemn tone, taking a step forward and pointing her finger right in front of her brother's face, to which Harry glared, "have been challenged."

"And if you don't accept it," came Will's high-pitched voice in Harry's ear ("You idiot, lower your voice or I'll become deaf!"), "you'll be proclaimed as the most slimy _snake_ in history!"

"What are you talking about, you morons?!" Harry asked heatedly, looking annoyed at his sisters in front of him; he wasn't in the mood of doing _anything_ his stupid siblings had in mind, and it would be better if they started _immediately_ to leave him alone.

"We're talking about you, us, and Quidditch! Emma, here," Claire went on, pointing at her sister behind her, "believes that you have softened, and that you wouldn't be able to beat us even if we were blind and armless, so..."

"I don't have time for this rubbish, stop it!"

"SO, it's your turn, now, to prove to Emma that you're worthy of being the youngest Seeker of the century." Claire left her last words to echo significantly through the room.

Silent fell, everyone looking at Harry, and Harry was now uncertain, caught off guard; Lily had started to smile, finally understanding her children's purpose, an inexplicable glint in her eyes; James, also smiling, threw an arm around his wife waist, leaving a kiss on top of her head.

Harry Potter had just spent the most dreadful month of his life: worse than those where all Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry students had thought of him as the heir of Slytherin, worse than those when he had to attend the Triwizard Tournament, when he had been always waiting a new task that could have easily killed him, always accompanied by anxiety and fear; and that month had been horrible, because Lord Voldemort – the most feared dark wizard in recent history, who Harry had inexplicably defeated as a baby – was back. And he – Harry – had seen his return.

It had happened the day of the last task of the Tournament, in june. Harry and the other three contenders had entered into a maze grown by Hagrid, the gamekeeper at Hogwarts, on the Quidditch pitch, where they had to find the Cup that would have designated the winner. Harry and Cedric Diggory – a Hogwarts Hufflepuff student of seventeen, and Harry's rival for the heart of a Ravenclaw girl, Cho Chang – had arrived first at the infamous Cup, and decided to take it together.

The Cup had been, as it turned out, a Passport, and it had led them into a cemetery. Peter Pettigrew, named Wormtail, Voldemort's loyal servant that had escaped from Azkaban two years previously, and once a friend of Harry's father James, before he – Wormtail – betrayed him, had been there, with what remained of Voldemort himself, and had killed, suddenly, before the two boys could have even realized where they were, Cedric Diggory, seventeen-years-old, an Hufflepuff student loyal and clever and brave, with a whole life ahead of him.

It had been Harry to ask him to take the Cup together.

And Wormtail, once committed the homicide, had bind Harry to a tomb; but this, you already know.

Harry had managed to escape thanks to the spirits of the people killed by Voldemort's wand – including Cedric – that had gave him the time to run away and come back to Hogwarts with the body...

And now, Cedric Diggory was dead, and it was all Harry's fault.

Voldemort was back, and still because of Harry.

This, at least, was Harry's opinion, and all he had thought of during the summer.

He hadn't showed up yet, Voldemort, until now; he worked in the shadows, creating confusion among the Wizarding World, making sure that no one believed the words of that boy with a lightening-shaped scar who claimed to have seen him come back.

The Boy Who Lies: so now they called Harry in the _Daily Prophet:_ to denigrate, discredit him; Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, didn't want to believe in Voldemort return, so _no one_ had to believe it, and Harry had to be reviled for who he was, a liar.

His family threw him glances when they thought he wasn't looking, but he knew, he understood, that they felt pity for him, for the Boy Who Lies.

He had so closed in on itself (a/n ?), Harry, locking himself up in his room in protest against his parents that persisted to not let him leave the house, because it was too "dangerous": to hide from him every new article in which he was mentioned; to not telling him Voldemort's movement of which they, as member of the Order of the Phoenix, – a secret society founded by Dumbledore in the 70's to fight against Voldemort – _knew_ about, had to know. They persisted to not let him join the Order itself, when, come on, who more than _him_ had the right to be part of it?

He was scared, too, fifteen-years-old Harry, although he would never admit it, and how could he _not_ be? The image of Voldemort bursting into their house and killing all of his family and the people he cared about, haunted him.

But not as the death of Cedric Diggory did; every night, every single _damn_ night, he relived it, and the fact that he had kind of hated the boy when he was alive only increased his all-consuming guilt.

And now here they were, his stupid siblings, who wanted at all costs that he played Quidditch with them (ah, he missed Quidditch; fly, fly high in the sky, with the wind in his hair and the world beneath him, with the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you're about to catch the Golden Snitch in midair...), and deep down he wanted to, he wanted it so much, to let himself go, to let himself be, maybe just a little bit, happy, thoughtless, a boy of his age...but how could he, if Cedric Diggory was dead? If Voldemort was back?

"Listen, guys," Harry then began, "Really, you're very sweet in wanting me to play, but..."

" No, no, no, Harry, maybe you didn't understand," cut him off Emma, as if talking to a naughty child, "you don't have a say in this; you either play, or you'll have Beth and Will stuck with you all day singing no-stop _The Continuing Story of __Bungalow Bill,_ and only the chorus_."_

Harry's eyes widened, then he looked down at Beth, who was still holding him around his waist, and saw that she had a mischievous smile on his pink, freckled face. The twins in front of him wore the same grin; and Harry could instinctively tell that Will did, too.

He was trapped.

Shit.

"Well, it seems," intervened Mr. Potter at that point, with a smirk from ear to ear, "that I'll miss a great game; but, sadly, duty calls and I have to go to work."

He pecked Lily's cheek, who was half laughing, half crying, then he went through his children; he ruffled Will's hair ("Good grip, Snitch.") and winked at him, he kissed the top of Beth's red head, hugged with an arm Claire who smiled at him and gave Emma a high five. Before walking out of the door the latter had left free for the passage, he turned toward Harry and, putting a hand on his shoulder free, said to him, in a tone and with a smile and look that wanted to communicate many things – that he was proud of him; that he, Harry, had to play and have fun, because he deserved it, because he had no fault in what happened; that he had to be strong, because harder time awaited them; and that he never had to doubt that his family would always be at his side, because it would, always believing in him: "You beat them all, Harry."

Harry, in that moment, felt almost a surge of affection for his father, but then, thinking about it, his resentment was back, more bursting than before.


	3. Breaking Points

**A/N** Second chapter on board! :) Then i say thanks and thanks to whoever liked/followed/reviewed the story, i love every one of you *-* Hope you like this one too. So, go!

**Disclaimer**: I still don't own anything of Harry Potter ;)

Chapter 2

Breaking Points

James Potter arrived to the Ministry of Magic, that early August morning, late; and in his situation, it didn't help.

"Hey, Potter! Who did your son see come back today, eh? Merlin?" demanded, as he crossed the Atrium, a wizard in black, who was laughing, pointing at him, near the Fountain of Magical Brethren with a group of fellow greying hostile men.

James ignored them, grinding his teeth and hurrying towards the lifts; he _couldn't_ mind them, or he would have done their game.

Levelling up, another umpteenth number of people, getting on or off the elevator, pointed at him, whispered behind his back, laughed at him, but James Potter was better than them, and Harry the best of all.

Or at least, this was what he kept repeating to himself.

Arrived on the second floor, he hastened through the corridors to the Auror Office.

The Department was large and used as an open-space, with long rows of cubicles from the grey walls which were covered with either mugshots, family photo, or even some posters of a person's favourite Quidditch team. All day you couldn't hope to find silence in there: each for the sound of flipping papers, or for the incessant chattering or discussions between office neighbours.

When James arrived at his cubicle, however, the room _could_ be considered silent; James found out the reason of it as he looked down on his desk and saw the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ of the day opened on the page he was looking at no so long ago at home; a picture of Harry sitting on the porch of their house, slyly taken from the outside gate, stood out on it: _a boy who's always alone is definitely out of his mind_, was practically the message of the article.

James looked around, meeting only the back of the bowed heads of his colleagues, some of whom had looked away right as he looked up.

_Fucking bastards._

* * *

Lily Potter was watching her children playing Quidditch from the window at ground level of her workroom in the basement.

"_Kids, I'm working downstairs, if you need me for anything, call me,_" she had told them more than an hour before.

The Polyjuice Potion had almost completed its brewing; two more days, and it would have been ready. The Veritaserum was not even close, instead.

"_We need all the provisions of useful potions possible."_

The words of Alastor Moody, uttered during one of the first meetings of the Order of the Phoenix, echoed in her mind._ It's almost like the old days_, mused her, _and not in a good way_; the only differences were four more children, and the temporary absence of mysterious killings, – except that first one a month previously – though this wasn't going to last long.

Fools they were, thinking it was over, hoping he wouldn't come back, when Dumbledore had always been fairly certain that this was not the case, and, usually, Dumbledore's beliefs were correct...

Her children were laughing, out there, shouting in encouragement, as Harry and Beth were head to head upon catching the Snitch, and how Lily wished that that moment was never to fade, and that her sweet, wonderful children were to stay forever under her watchful eye, protected from everything that could have harmed them...

She turned around for a second, stirring twice the Skele-Gro potion clockwise, then came back to the window, and Beth had caught the Snitch, flying victoriously around the Quidditch pitch magically hidden from Muggles, set by James as they moved in that house, fourteen years previously. Harry was acting the devastated and indignant loser, and Lily smiled.

How _really_ wonderful they were; she was still impressed and moved by that little stunt the younger had pulled at breakfast to convince (_or rather threaten, but it was for a good cause_, Lily giggled) their big brother to play with them, to cheer him up.

"_That ticking noise Harry heard and that woke him up was of the clock we have in our bedroom, amplified with a well-put Sonorus," revealed Emma, with a grin and rather proud of herself, when Lily approached her alone, after the others had gone picking up their brooms from the closet, and asked for more details._

"_Young lady," Lily tried to scold her, "you're not allowed to use magic outside of school."_

"_But mum," she replied, not worried at all and sure that her mother was not really angry, "who do you think will care, in a house where grown wizards live?!"_

_And Lily had let it go._

Harry would have been better, ha _had_ to be.

* * *

Harry opened the fridge in the kitchen and grabbed the jug of pumpkin juice.

Sweaty, tired after a long day of Quidditch matches, he swallowed the icy drink and immediately found relief.

It was late afternoon, by then; his mother was still busy with her potions in the basement, and his siblings had gone upstairs to recover from various status of bulging.

He had to act now, and quickly.

Putting the jug back in place, glancing at the grand-father clock on the fireplace to make sure the time in which his father would come back was still, relatively, distant, he hastened out of the room and, crossing the wide entrance hall, started up the wooden central stairs as noiselessly as he could, till he reached his parents' room.

He rummaged through the drawers, in the closet, under the bed, in several pockets, but _nothing_; no copy, not necessarily of the day, of the _Daily Prophet_ was in sight. As always. The only times in which he had managed to get at one of them was when he had been at Ron's house.

Harry believed that his parents actually had _fun_ in treating him like a child, hiding things from him, protecting him obsessively from _everything_; and the fact that every night they came and woke him up to comfort him after he had a nightmare only humiliated him _more_, and his anger and shame and guilt and resentment grew.

But they would not have held him captive for much longer.

Giving up to his search, he headed for his room, and he heard the twins' voices from their room near his in the process; he had told them he didn't want to be disturbed anymore, so they wouldn't come and call him untill supper time, and he counted on being back by then.

He noisily closed his door behind his back, to make the hearers understand that the hour in which they had to leave him alone had started, then he turned and locked it. He headed quickly for the window, but not before he had grabbed a bundle and hid it under his shirt; he then climbed on the desk to reach and open it, and withdrew his wand murmuring an 'Accio', after which his broom that he had previously providentially put just below his room, flew right to him. He mounted it and flew down. He was then careful to levitate it back in the closet in which they kept the family brooms, and, finally, taking the Invisibility Clock out from under his shirt and wearing it, he crossed all the back garden and climbed over the fence that led into the street behind.

His parents hadn't thought of taking from him the Clock; they must have believed that he was responsible enough to use it properly: but, mused Harry, he wasn't doing anything totally _bad_ in that moment.

He just went for a walk, he told himself as he became visible again.

* * *

Another boring day at work, filled with papers to be read and signed, written and corrected, full of eyes that followed his every movement, wherever he went, if at lunch or to stretch his legs didn't matter, was almost over. At home awaited him a nice hot meal, the warmth of the fireplace, and, hopefully, any drama.

But tomorrow would be the same as today, and the day after that as well; at least a new Order meeting was scheduled for two days later: it _was_ something to look forward.

It was when Sirius Black, together with some other aurors, returned from a mission in Gloucestershire, noisily entering the headquarters from the direction of the lifts, that something unusual to the monotony of the last days happened. A flying notification had come with the group of wizards, and, to the non-surprise of James and of anyone in the room, it landed on Mr. Potter's desk. It was from the secretary of the Minister of Magic.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I here inform you that the Minister of Magic has called you to his office, on this day, August 2th 1995, at 5:27 p.m, with immediate effect, to discuss with you issues of the utmost importance._

_Sincerely, _

_the personal secretary to the Minister of Magic, _

_Percy Ignatius Weasley_

And so the boy had become Fudge's personal secretary, James thought; he wondered if the family knew. He let that thought aside, however, for now, because there was more important issues waiting for him.

This was it, finally.

* * *

Harry wandered the town streets (_so small and boring, what were they thinking when they decided to move_ here_?_), aimlessly and with the sole desire to find something that could distract him from the accumulation of unpleasant thoughts he had in his mind; but it was vain to hope.

The streets were almost deserted, where he was walking, except from the occasional passage of a few cars, and probably, Harry mused, this was due to the heat that he could feel only too well; people, intelligently, awaited in their house, with air conditioners turned on, for the coolest hours.

He arrived to an abandoned playground, dismantled and dusty, and sat on the only intact swing. It was quite, there, if a bit gloomy.

The sky was clearly darker when he left.

He had to hurry up to get home, or they'd found out about his get-away. He retraced his steps.

In the shadow of the first alley he passed, however, something, or better someone, caught his attention. He was a boy; a Muggle, surely, with common features, acne, accurately ragged clothes, and an ear piercing, that, leaning loosely on the wall of a house, was smoking.

"What are you looking at?" he snapped, upon noticing Harry's glance.

Harry stared at him in silence, intently.

The other, oddly enough, grinned. "Want to try it too, eh, toff?" - he nodded toward Harry's clearly expensive clothes - "Daddy didn't want to buy you a third new TV, so now you want to be a little rebel?" His voice had changed to mimic that of a naughty child.

Harry thought about it: he _had_ always been a perfect, responsible, and all that rubbish son...He wondered how it would felt, to try smoking...maybe, maybe _this_ would have evaporated those thoughts. They say it tastes good, and after, you feel better...

Yes, it was really time that he did something for himself.

"Yeah, exactly," he therefore said to the stranger, calmly, his heart beating fast inside of him.

He seemed surprised for a moment, bewildered by the non-reaction to his provocation, but he recovered quickly, and then his grin widened even more. "As you wish, wanker, here you are, try this." And he handed him his lighted cigarette.

Harry took it.

* * *

"_I'm tired of you Potters! You and your rubbish a-about You-Know-Who! I will not tolerate your presence in my Ministry anymore, when you're all conspiring against me behind my back, yes, you understood me, Mr. Potter, you and your wife are conspiring against me with that old fool Dumbledore! And you have misled your son too, convinced him to go against me! You – you..._"

James didn't heard further, because at that moment he got to his feet, knocking over his chair, and walked out of the Minister of Magic's office, before he murdered him, here and there, and to hell with everything...

He passed through the corridors of the first level of the Ministry, closing and opening his fists as if he was tightening them around Fudge's neck, then he went down using the stairs, because he couldn't bear the slowness of the lifts, not in that moment.

It was over, he had been fired: but he had expected it, so it wasn't this great of a deal; the _real_ problem, now, was_ how would he have told Harry?_

_You fucking piece of shit of a Fudge._

He burst into the Auror Office without caring about the heads that turned in the direction of the noise and so his; knowing that they _knew_ exactly, or nearly so, what must have happened only made him more furious.

"Potter!" a sharp voice called. James turned and saw Sirius Black rise from his chair and approach him.

"And so Fudge gave you the sack, didn't he?" asked Sirius with a derisive grin, casually moving away a loose strand of hair from his face.

James said nothing, reaching his desk. He conjured a box and started to fill it with his things.

"It was time, in my opinion, wasn't it, Milkins?" Sirius went on, addressing a near auror; the latter stared bewildered, and said nothing.

"What do you want, Black? If you have to fuck with me this way, do it quickly," snapped James, removing Peter Pettigrew's mugshot from the wall of his cubicle, reducing it to ashes with a flick of his wand.

"Oh, what I wanted has already been achieved, so I'm good, I guess," said Sirius, still with the same grin.

Everyone, without exception, even the ones who were pretending not to, were paying attention to the scene, shocked. Weren't Black and Potter friends?

"Then piss off," replied James, no particular inflection in his voice.

"I don't think so; I have too much fun annoying a sissy like you."

James finally looked up, meeting Sirius' teasing grey eyes.

The latter didn't stop: "Tell me something, Potter, how does it feel to be the father of the laughing stock of the Wizarding World, of the boy who is so greedy for fame that he goes around saying that You-Know-Who is back?"

"You do not _dare_..."

Black ignored him, and grabbed that morning's edition of the _Daily Prophet_ from the trash under James' desk.

"_And here is the Boy Who Lived, sitting on the porch of his majestic country house, staring into space..._" read aloud Black, in a voice that was meant to be solemn, "_...like a perfect loony; I ask myself, what are we waiting to shut him in a mental hospital, for the good of us all? If his 'stories' aren't a sufficient indicati..._"

James threw himself impetuously on Sirius, ripping up the paper – which fell on the floor with a thud – from his hands, and pointing his wand against his throat, an expression half stony half angry on his face.

"You do not dare talk that way about my son, Black, or I'll tear your heart apart, do you understand?" he said coolly. Black, not at all frightened, widened even more, if possible, his grin.

"You try it, Potter."

They stared at each other for a moment, the entire room frozen, waiting; at length, James let go of Sirius, who stepped back, and, quickly gathering his last things, left the Auror Office, probably for the last time.

* * *

Lily, with a last stir, bottled the contents of a couple of cauldrons, glanced at some others to check their brewing state, then she went upstairs. The light in the entrance hall wasn't so piercing; in fact, it encouraged her to stop for a moment on the threshold of her laboratory to admire the games of light and dark in the spacious atrium of her house: the effects on the crystal of the candlestick, the gloss that the handrail of the wooden stairs to her left seemed to have achieved...for those few seconds she felt almost at peace. She breathed deeply.

James would be back shortly after, but she still had time for a shower before having to start cooking dinner; she went upstairs once again.

Rhythmic, noisy music came from the twins' bedroom; Lily then saw Will making some old Quaffles roll down the stairs, but she decided not to stop him (not before recommending him to be careful not to make anyone trip over those balls, and pecking him a kiss, which he accepted reluctantly); Beth was nowhere to be seen.

Lily went into her bedroom; she took off her shoes and threw them in the bathroom, then sat on the bed and rubbed her back: a nice, relaxing shower was what she needed.

"Harry! Harry, are you awake? Can I come in?" she heard Beth's voice from outside in the corridor, and the knock on the door of her brother that followed every call. Lily listened.

When the struggles of her daughter continued without any effect, Lily got to her feet and reached her.

"Sweetheart, maybe Harry doesn't want to be disturbed..." she said to Beth. She turned toward her mother, a fist still up ready to knock once again, and Lily's heart sank upon seeing her daughter's eyes, so alike hers; they were wide and teary, crestfallen and a little scared. Lily was alarmed.

"What is it, honey? Something wrong?" she asked softly, lifting the girl's chin. She shook her head.

"I just – just wanted to give this to Harry," Beth replied, showing her mother a drawing she had in her other fist. It represented a house – theirs – and all the members of their family standing in a row next to it: it was a children's drawing, but it was evident all the care and attention the little girl had put in it. "Maybe he can keep it under his pillow, so at night he won't have nightmares anymore: I enchanted it," she added.

"You _enchanted_ it?" Lily asked with a smile.

Beth, proud of herself, straightened her head and nodded vigorously, smiling back. "I found this book in Daddy's study where there was this spell they use on dream catchers, and I did it, and no, I don't need a wand, it said all you need to do is _want_ it," she explained.

"This seems wonderful to me, Betty...come on, let's try and make him open the door."

They started knocking and calling again. "Harry, honey, Beth here want to give you something, open the door, please."

But nothing.

Lily frowned. "Maybe he's sleeping...but usually he wakes up at the slightest noise..." she said doubtfully.

"Or maybe he's gone downstairs," Beth suggested.

"Hmm..." Lily tried the door, but it was locked. "How many times have I told him to not lock himself in his room..."

The twins came out of their room that was immediately to the left, and approached them to see what was going on.

Lily resolved to use magic. She had a queer feeling.

"Alohomora,"she spoke clearly, pointing her wand at the lock and making a firm movement with her arm. It clicked.

The inside was empty.

* * *

Harry started to cough, and only after quite a long time he managed to stop; he even doubled over, his eyes slightly teary and his breath cut off.

The boy next to him was doubled up with laughter. "I forget to tell ya, greenhorn, that the first time you could..." A new burst of coughing – from Harry – stronger than before interrupted him. "Yeah, exactly like that."

Harry eventually calmed down. Then he too was laughing, and he gave an half shove to the other guy.

"Yeah, no problem, it's over now," he said. "Let me try again."

"As you wish." Harry decided to ignore the tease in his voice.

After a few more drags, Harry got almost used to it; the smoke was pungent, but after the first impact, it wasn't so unpleasant. He almost felt lighter, too.

"Well, then, it was a real pleasure to meet you, wanker," said the boy, ironically, after a while. "But now I have to go...girls await me, you know." But glancing him a look, he added "Or maybe you _don't_ know," and grinned again.

Harry frowned, starting to feel annoyed. The cigarette that he held between his index and middle fingers, as the stranger taught him, was over and Harry didn't know what to do with it: he looked around looking for a trash can. The boy (_should I ask his name?_, Harry wondered) rolled his eyes and took the cigarette from him.

"Watch and learn, greenhorn," he said; he threw it on the floor and stepped on it. Harry nodded.

The other then looked at him, arching an eyebrow. "You're really strange, aren't you? Where do you _live_?"

Before Harry could answer, however, a sudden, disconcerting _crack_ cut through the air, and Harry spun around, looking form side to side in search of its source. It had sounded familiar...terribly familiar...

"What was that?" snapped the Muggle.

"Oh, probably nothing, maybe a branch fallen from a tree or..." Harry tentatively replied.

But right in that moment, something else happened.

The atmosphere suddenly seemed to cool down, a cold wind starting to pull and hit their faces, as the pre-twilight light faded considerably, leaving the alley in which Harry and the Muggle boy stood rather darker than a moment before.

Keeping to look around, alarmed, his breath quickening, Harry started to feel the oh-so-familiar sensations of obstruction in his throat, chill in his bones, and of despair that was slowly wrapping his whole being...dark shadows were approaching the entrance of the alley, and Harry knew at once what they were.


End file.
